


Eyes on the Stars

by SoulOfStars



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst and Humor, Cube Rule, F/M, Feyre deserves to be happy, Feyre talks to the eye on her hand, Nightmares, Post-UtM, Reminder that Feyre has such little life experience and almost all of it was traumatizing, Rhysand can hear her, She deserves her own space, Shenanigans, The Court of Dreams (ACoTaR), Velaris, Vomiting, Why? Magic.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfStars/pseuds/SoulOfStars
Summary: After everything that happened Under the Mountain, Feyre knows she's a mess. The only difference is that, instead of turning away from the eye on her palm, she starts talking to it. About her fears, which rooms she can't go into, whether pies are bread bowls or not (they are). Rhysand hears her and eventually responds (but only on accident after she calls Tamlin a furry).Alis becomes their accomplice after Rhysand starts visiting Feyre instead of the other way around, and eventually Feyre moves out of the Spring Court and into a house in Velaris to learn what independence feels like.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Tamlin, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Eyes on the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This was a ride to write, and I hope y'all enjoy reading!

Feyre woke up, scrambling out of bed towards the bathroom, briefly glad that Tamlin hadn’t come to sleep with her tonight and she wouldn’t have to trip over him in her haste. Her hands were clammy, a cold sweat covering her from head to toe, but she was thankful for her newfound grace and speed when she reached the toilet in time to heave into it, her meager dinner disappearing into the pipes when she flushed it. After a moment of leaning over the toilet just to make sure she wasn’t going to vomit anymore, she sat up, grimacing at the taste in her mouth. 

She shuffled over to the sink, her limbs feeling weak, and swished some water around in her mouth to wash away the taste, then sank back down on the tile, pausing when she noticed something. 

The eye on her palm was open. 

It wasn’t closed or just barely open, but wide open as if the male on the other side was wide awake. She sighed quietly, staring at it and feeling almost as though it was staring back at her. _If I talked to it,_ she mused, _would he hear me?_ She kept staring. _Well, even if he wouldn’t, it would be nice to talk to someone about anything other than decorations and dinner party plans._ It felt vaguely like a betrayal, but… Rhysand hadn’t seemed like her enemy in the end, after Amarantha died. Decided, she looked away, breaking the impromptu staring contest with it. 

“I don’t know if you can hear this,” she said softly, her averted eyes missing the way the eye on her palm widened slightly. “I feel crazy for even trying this at all, but I wanted to talk to someone— _anyone_ —who understands and won’t force me to think about what dress I’m wearing or the colours of tablecloths or how the napkins should be folded or even my ‘ _responsibilities_ ’ as the Lady of the Spring Court. Not even High Lady. Just… Lady.” The bitterness in her own voice caught Feyre by surprise, and she frowned at herself. Tamlin had saved her, had helped her climb out of the darkness, had given her what she needed to keep surviving. 

But they never talked about what happened under the mountain. He never told her what was happening at the borders, never let her try to help their people in any way that mattered—she did not count the dresses; symbols seemed flimsy compared to hammering walls into place and making use of her new fae strength. Tamlin never let her wander about without a handful of guards watching every step she took, and she hated it. She took a deep breath, then leaned back against the wall, head angled towards the window, her eyes fixed on the stars outside. The eye on her palm stayed open.

“Sometimes I feel—trapped? I feel like the walls are closing in and I’m under the mountain again, and I can’t—” she cut herself off, exhaling shakily before continuing in a whisper. “I feel like I can’t breathe.” Feyre closed her eyes for a moment, the knowledge that the stars would be there if she opened them again bringing her comfort, and she sighed in relief when the darkness behind her eyelids didn’t make her want to heave into the toilet again. 

She opened her eyes and looked down at her palms, her old calluses non-existent in her new body, the tattoo from the bargain stark against her skin. She hadn’t picked up a bow in so long, and training was, apparently, off the table, so she hadn’t had the chance to form new calluses. It seemed odd not to carry a constant reminder of how she had survived for so long. Of course she thought she _deserved_ a break, but without training, she was as good as a sitting duck. A damsel in distress for her dearest high lord to protect.

“Gods, this must seem so pathetic to you. It’s the middle of the night, I’ve just hurled my guts up, and I’m spilling all my nasty, awful thoughts to you because I have no one else to talk to about it.” When no answer came, she silently chided herself. What did she expect—Rhysand appearing out of thin air in her bedroom? A signed note, perhaps? With a sigh, she pushed herself off of the ground and made her way back to her bed, collapsing into yet another uneasy sleep.

* * *

The next night was similar. She shot up from bed, making her way to the bathroom through the darkness, the path familiar throughout the many nights since she broke the spell. The toilet was again the new home of her dinner, and the sound of the faucet turning on swept the bitterness from her mouth. Once more, she stared at the eye, wondering if she was really doing this, before beginning to speak. 

“I can’t go into certain rooms anymore. The walls seem to close in on me and-” her breath caught, and she stopped talking. She turned to look out the window at the stars, feeling the breeze and taking comfort in the fact that she had gotten _out_ , this was _real_ , and she was _never, ever going back_. “There aren’t enough windows in the kitchen or the study. I can’t see the sun or the sky or feel the breeze when I need to, and I—I panic.” Feyre pressed her hands against the cold tile of the bathroom, needing the solid reassurance that this was real, and sighed. 

Gods, this was so depressing. She was sitting in the bathroom, probably just talking to herself about her fears. Who knew if Rhysand was even listening, or if he even cared? 

…Even if he wasn’t listening, it still felt good to air out her awful thoughts aloud. 

She sighed and leaned back against the wall, trying to remember what she’d told him yesterday so she wouldn’t repeat any of it. 

“Tamlin wants me to wear these dresses all the time. I don’t like them. I can’t move very well or fight in them, and I keep tripping over the hems because of this stupid fae body,” Feyre muttered bitterly, her nails biting into her palms. _Fae strength—more a curse than a blessing, really. All it’s good for is bending forks and breaking priceless antiques._ The eye on her palm seemed to be laughing at her, and she gave it a dirty look. 

“Not all of us have had over a hundred years to get used to our bodies, you know,” she sniped at it, feeling foolish immediately after she did so. She rolled her eyes at herself and sighed, then picked herself up off of the bathroom tile. Even if the High Lord of the Night Court could hear her, he probably had better things to do and wouldn’t—or couldn’t—answer back. She let the silence consume her for a moment—let it gnaw at her and suck the feeling out of her like it was sucking the marrow from her bones. Then, she strode back into her dark bedroom, opened the curtains as wide as they could go, and laid back down in her cold bed, letting the sight of the stars comfort her as she fell asleep.

* * *

After a few more nights of this routine, she started talking to the eye more frequently out of habit, even in the daytime. Usually, she told it her thoughts like when she felt the walls closing in on her, but more and more often lately, she talked to it about small, inconsequential things—sometimes just silly things that occurred to her in the moment—on the off chance that the male on the other side of their bargain was listening. 

Feyre picked at her dinner that evening, not really listening to Lucien and Tamlin trying to make small talk and answering noncommittally whenever they addressed her directly. The soup was heavenly and she enjoyed it quite a bit, but when she used her toast to sop up the remnants, a stray thought found its way past her lips, directed at the eye on her palm, before she fully registered where she was and who she was with. 

“Do you think pizza counts as a type of toast?” 

Everyone at the table froze. Feyre felt her face heat with embarrassment when Lucien and Tamlin stared at her, both confused as hell, and she stuttered as she excused herself from the table quickly.

* * *

On the other side of the bond, Rhysand was _cracking up_. He was laughing too hard to answer Cassian and Mor’s questions about his sudden burst of humour, and Azriel was definitely staring at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Feyre had—he snorted, clutching at his sides— _and in the middle of dinner, too_.

“Cassian,” he wheezed, “Is—Is pizza a type of toast?” Cassian stared at him. 

“Are-” he blinked, complete and utter confusion on his face. “Are you serious? That’s what started this?” Rhysand waved his hand, struggling to take a deep breath through his laughter. 

“No, it’s—Feyre, in the middle of dinner, she just-” he shook his head, trying to catch his breath. Mor rolled her eyes at him. 

“Go on, don’t just keep us in suspense.” 

“So, over the past week or so, Feyre darling has been talking to—me—and saying whatever comes to her mind. At first, it was only when she was feeling like shit, but eventually it got to the point where she would bring up anything and everything.” He snorted. Just thinking about it almost made him start laughing again. “Apparently, it’s become a habit, and, just now, in the middle of dinner, Feyre asked me that out of the blue right in front of Tamlin and Lucien-” He cracked up again, his shoulders shaking with the force of his mirth. Mor sighed, swapping a _look_ with Azriel. 

“You’re adorable,” Amren deadpanned.

* * *

Rhysand was in the middle of a meeting when it happened again. Azriel was updating him on the situation with Hybern as well as anything noteworthy that had happened in the other courts when Feyre’s voice filtered over the bond. 

“Aren’t some pies just… bread bowls?” No embarrassment followed, so he assumed she was alone. Rhysand snorted, covering his mouth to hide his smile and gesturing for Azriel to continue when he paused. Meanwhile, she continued. “I mean, the crust is just bread, right?” There was a long pause, and Rhysand tried to focus on Azriel’s report before she started speaking again. “It encircles the filling, and some pies have an open top instead of being completely enclosed. So, wouldn’t that make it a bread bowl?” 

“Azriel,” he interrupted his Spymaster, apologetic when he said, “I’m sorry, but she’s talking over the bond again, and it’s a little hard to focus.” Azriel nodded, his brow furrowed for a moment before it smoothed out. 

“Why don’t you just answer her? You can tell her you’re occupied,” Mor chimed in from across the room. 

“Wait, you two have a bond?” Cassian’s eyebrows were almost to his hairline. “Don’t tell me she’s your-” Rhysand made a face at him, and he wiggled his eyebrows. Rolling his eyes, Rhysand ignored him and answered Mor. 

“I’m not answering her because…” He paused, his brows knitting. 

“Because you’re a coward?” Cassian snickered, and Rhysand shot him a dirty look. 

“No, I’m just waiting for the right moment.” 

“Oh, I get it, you’re trying to be as dramatic as possible. Taking lessons from Amren, are you?” Amren bared her teeth at him, and he grinned back at her, his canines catching the light. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Mor interjected before the two could bring down the whole mountain around them. “What did she say this time?” 

“Some pies are bread bowls, apparently.” They sat in a thoughtful silence. 

“I mean, she has a point,” Cassian said. “But what would the pies with crust over the top be, then?” Mor shrugged. 

“A calzone?” She suggested. Cassian hummed before declaring it ravioli, instead, and the two began to argue the point with Amren helpfully chiming in whenever the argument seemed to be dying down. Azriel just sighed, a smile pulling at his lips.

* * *

It was midnight and Feyre couldn’t sleep. She had awoken from another nightmare, the darkness in her room sending her hurtling towards the bathroom. The brief respite between each heave gave her a few moments to wonder whether it would be worth it to “accidentally” break a hole in the ceiling so she wouldn’t have to wake in darkness. The more she considered it, the more it seemed like a good idea. And if Tamlin tried to have it replaced with stone, an impeccable replication of the original, perhaps she would find it in her to bat her eyelashes nicely and ask for a skylight, instead. 

She washed the taste of vomit from her mouth and closed her eyes, then opened them again quickly, jerking back towards the toilet when the darkness behind her eyelids proved to be too much too soon. She couldn’t even express her thoughts to the eye on her palm because Tamlin was laying in her bed tonight, pretending he was asleep, although she knew that, with his warrior’s training and enhanced senses, he couldn’t possibly have slept through her disentangling herself from the sheets, and he certainly couldn’t have slept through the sound of her vomiting. Smoke curled in her mouth at the thought that he simply laid there, pretending to be ignorant to her suffering every night. 

Tamlin was suffering too, though. He had more responsibility on his shoulders than she could fathom. With that thought, her anger guttered and she felt ashamed of herself for thinking so badly of him, however brief. She hung her head, the stark black lines of the tattoo on her arm catching her attention. The eye on her palm was only slightly open tonight. She felt like it was judging her. 

“Shut up,” she muttered as quietly as she could, making a face at it. When the eye closed a second later as though telling her to go to sleep, Feyre grinned, feeling slightly better than she had just moments ago. When she stared back into the darkness of her bedroom, however, she thought of her cell under the mountain and her stomach rolled uncomfortably. 

She was so tired of this. What if she just slept on the roof? It was certainly warm enough, and she would be able to hear the sounds of the night and feel the breeze and see the sky. It wasn’t a permanent solution, though, especially with the ever present threat of rain. Spring had some disadvantages. Her earlier plan crossed her mind once again. It couldn’t hurt to try, could it?

A gaping hole appeared in the ceiling “accidentally” the next day. A week later, she had a skylight directly over her bed and was sleeping better than ever.

* * *

The night was cloudy. Feyre could not see the stars, nor the moon, but the clouds were thin enough and the moon bright enough that the night was still light. Still, it bothered her that she couldn’t see the stars for some reason. Her mouth was moving before her mind could catch up.

“High Lord of the Night Court’s hoarding all the damn stars for himself, the bastard,” she grumbled, then paused and stared at the eye on her palm. It didn’t seem angry, it seemed almost… amused? She eyed it (ha!) suspiciously. “What, you don’t care that I just insulted you?” 

If anything, it became even more amused. 

“You’re a weird male,” she informed it, and made a note to herself that apparently the High Lord of the Night Court— _HLNC, pronounced “Hlink” aloud_ , her mind supplied helpfully—found it funny when she insulted him for stupid things. She decided to test it out a little more. 

The next day, Feyre turned a corner a little more quickly than usual, crying out when she stubbed her toe. She leaned forwards and pressed her forehead against the wall, the pain bringing tears to her eyes. Honestly, of all the things that she’d gone through, somehow the pain of stubbing her toe was so much worse. _Then again,_ she mused, remembering the Middengard Wyrm, _maybe not._ Still, it fucking _hurt_. 

“I know this is your fault somehow, Rhysand,” she muttered, wiggling her toes angrily in an attempt to make the pain pass. A glance at the eye on her palm told her that the male on the other end was probably laughing at her. “Ugh,” she said coherently, making a face at it. The feeling of being laughed at intensified, and a smile pulled at her lips.

* * *

Lucien wondered why the hell he was hearing Feyre curse the High Lord of the Night Court out, especially because, had he been present, half the Spring Court would be in a panic and Tamlin would be up in arms. He peeked around the open doorway of the library as she continued her tirade, getting increasingly creative with her insults. She was just—sitting in front of an open children’s book? He stepped a little closer, his foot scuffing the ground accidentally, and her head cocked, her ears twitching. She stopped cursing and turned around, holding one of her fingers out in front of her sheepishly. 

“I got a papercut,” she said by way of explanation. He raised an eyebrow, and an embarrassed flush rose to her cheeks. “I kinda… developed a habit of blaming _him_ for small things like this because I thought it was funny…” She trailed off, absently wiping the blood on her finger away and watching it bead on the surface of her skin again. 

Lucien found himself caught between exasperation and humour. Feyre apparently cursed out the High Lord of the Night Court, one of the most powerful fae males alive on this continent at the moment, for the smallest of inconveniences because she found it _funny_. 

“I hope you realize what he might do to you if you keep up that habit when-” his eyes darted to the tattoo, and she frowned. On one hand, the male’s reputation was terrifying enough to make her throat go dry. One the other hand, whenever she did it, the eye on her palm seemed to be laughing at her. Maybe she’d ask him about it if he ever answered back.

“It is what it is—I’m just having fun,” she replied, shrugging. And when she made her way out of the library and tripped over the doorway, true to her word, she muttered, “Damnit, Rhysand.” Lucien sighed, but found himself glad that something could manage to make her smile, especially after she’d seemed to retreat into herself after the events under the mountain. 

When he heard her doing it again not a day later, he just shook his head.

* * *

“Cauldron, Feyre,” Rhysand said to himself while striding through the streets of Velaris. “When will you learn that roses have thorns?” From the other side of the bond, he could hear her jokingly blaming him for it, and rolled his eyes, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. 

Over the past few days, she had escalated from blaming him for a cloudy night to actually cursing him out over a papercut, and he found it absolutely _hilarious_. Not to mention the fact that she seemed to do it at any time, like when he was eating or flying or out shopping to find some shiny new thing for Amren, or even, on one memorable occasion, when he was on the toilet. He remembered firmly closing his side of the bond for that one, though he regretted not knowing what new ways she found to insult him. 

She still talked to him about her nightmares, and she still told him when she had a flashback, but more and more often, she was either insulting him or regaling him with her strangest thoughts. He really had no idea how she came up with them. What was her inspiration? How in the world did her brain make these connections? 

Once, she’d woken him up in the middle of the night, but she was just… staring at the eye. When he finally sat up, confused and, admittedly, a little worried about her, she simply nodded her head and, in the deepest and most grave voice she could manage, she whispered:

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake-” At the sound of her soft laughter over the bond, he groaned and rolled back over, covering his head with the pillow before remembering that she was talking to him over the bond and slamming his shields down on his end of the bridge. 

Rhysand rolled his eyes, remembering. For the strangest reason, whenever he recalled that night, he felt an odd kinship to dragons. He shrugged off the feeling and carried on his way.

* * *

Rhysand woke up to the black of night once again, fear being the prominent emotion he felt over the bond. He rubbed his eyes and tried his best to send soothing feelings back over the bridge between them, gratified when the fear lessened, then transformed into nausea. He relaxed into his soft pile of pillows, pulling his covers up further, waiting for Feyre to start talking. Sure enough, she began a moment later. 

“Do you ever think about how small we are compared to the stars? There are so many of them out there, all glimmering so brightly down at us from the heavens… Do you think they even know we exist?” Her tone was more contemplative than usual, and he wondered what had brought this on. She sighed. “I just… Sometimes I just wish you’d answer me. I know you’re listening, or at least, I think you are. You don’t seem to protest when I insult you, though I know that if I did it in person with Tamlin nearby, you’d probably end up holding it against him.” He had to agree; she was right about that. 

He felt a bit of shame for not answering her, but he was a little hesitant and, dare he say it, scared to interact with her like this. He knew she’d been the one talking to him throughout these past few weeks, but he still feared how she’d react when he finally answered back, especially with what Tamlin must have told her about him. Maybe she knew they were mates, and that was why she had started talking to him at all? He sighed. 

“You must have your reasons for not answering. Heck, maybe you can’t even hear anything I’m saying. But, hey, I just want you to know that if you don’t answer for long enough, I’m going to start coming up with some truly awful haikus about you.” Rhysand shuddered. 

“Cauldron, no,” he said aloud, horrified. Anything but that. There was a summer a few decades ago when Amren had refused to speak in anything but haikus, and it had been absolute torture. He still had flashbacks anytime he heard something with 5, 7, then 5 syllables. The sound of Feyre cackling like a madwoman shook him out of his thoughts. 

“Gods, you should have seen the way the eye widened-! I can only imagine the look on your face, but it’s _priceless!_ ” Her amusement was clear through the bond, and he found himself smiling with her. 

That night, they both fell asleep with smiles on their faces.

* * *

“A blue-black tattoo,” Rhysand straightened in his chair, horror etched into every feature. “The living night’s watching eye…”

“No, please,” he whispered, ignoring Mor’s worried looks. 

“I’m bored; Please answer,” Feyre finished, feeling proud of herself. Rhysand closed his eyes in defeat, a single tear rolling down his face. 

“Rhys?” He opened his eyes, staring sightlessly at the far wall. 

“She made a haiku…” Cassian’s mouth dropped open. 

“Oh, Cauldron, no,” he gasped. Azriel swapped a glance with Mor and stood up, striding out of the room as quickly as his legs could carry him. When he came back, he was holding two bottles of wine. 

“You’re a life-saver, Az,” Mor praised, and passed one of the bottles to Rhysand. He contemplated just chugging it, but, despite the haiku and the memories it evoked, the headache was _not_ worth the buzz. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t get absolutely wasted tonight to avoid thinking about that cursed summer.

* * *

Feyre wandered the garden for lack of anything to do, her eyes catching on Tamlin’s form when he stepped out of the house and made his way to the gates of the manor. She wondered where he was going, but when he grew claws and transformed into his beast form, she decided that it was better not to ask. 

“Hey, Rhysand,” she said to the eye on her palm, watching Tamlin stalk away. “Do you think Tamlin considers himself a furry?” 

Rhysand, reclining gracefully on a couch in the living room of the townhouse with a wine glass in one hand and a book in the other, choked on his drink. After a moment of sputtering, he marked his page and closed the book, fumbling for the bridge between his and Feyre’s minds out of confusion. 

_I beg your pardon???_ Pure delight flooded over the bond, and he realized what he’d done. There went his chance at choosing the perfect moment.

“You can hear me? I haven’t been talking to myself this whole time?” Feyre was a little scared that she had just been hallucinating it, but his answer made her sigh in relief, forgetting that she was out in the open. 

_Yes, I can hear you. Your speculation on pies being bread bowls is a very popular dinner conversation over here._ She flushed, briefly mortified, then began speed walking back inside, eager to be in her room so she could avoid the eyes and ears of her ever-present guards. _You don’t have to say it aloud, by the way, just… project your thoughts at me._ She could imagine the way one of his eyebrows would rise as he said that, and the corner of her lips quirked up. 

“So I just…” she paused, then imagined she could feel the link between them. _HELLO?_ She thought as loudly and clearly as she could manage, pushing it over the link. Rhysand nearly tumbled off the couch, and he winced and rubbed his temples. 

_Yes, just like that, but, please, not so loud._

_Hello?_

_Hello, Feyre darling._ She was smiling so widely that it hurt her cheeks. 

_You finally answered! I wasn’t sure whether or not I was just talking to myself, so hearing your voice is such a relief!_

_I could be a hallucination._ There was a pause. _But I’m not. How’s your day, Feyre?_

 _You’re such a prick._ Amusement filtered over the bond, and Feyre grinned. _So, you really don’t mind when I insult you?_ Although she didn’t necessarily _have_ to find a private place to talk now that she could simply send her thoughts to Rhysand, Feyre still continued on her way to her room to avoid getting weird looks for doubling back, especially after she’d left the gardens in such a hurry.

 _Cauldron, no. It’s the highlight of my day._ Feyre couldn’t hear any sarcasm, and sighed in relief. It could’ve gotten really awkward if he really did mind. Rhysand, on the other end of the bond, leaned further back on the couch, a smile pulling at his lips. _What was that about Tamlin being a furry?_

 _I didn’t say he was a furry, I was just wondering if he considers himself one._ Feyre finally reached her bedroom and closed the door behind her. _Actually, come to think of it, can all High Lords shapeshift?_

_Yes, though most prefer their fae form around outsiders._

_That’s really cool!_ Feyre chewed on her lip for a moment before deciding to just go for it, consequences be damned. _Do you think I can shapeshift?_ On the other side of the bond, Rhysand raised an eyebrow.

_I don’t know, Feyre. Have you tried?_

_I’m scared I won’t be able to undo whatever I try doing, so, no._

_That’s reasonable. I can talk you through it if you like or…_ Rhysand smirked. _I could call in that bargain and train you myself._ Feyre cocked her head. 

_Seeing you in the flesh is very different from talking to you via… whatever weird telepathic connection we share. But, I do want to know what I’m capable of, or at least be able to help if something ever happens, so maybe that would be best._

_You don’t have to decide now. Just tell me whenever you want to talk about it._ Rhysand finished his wine and stood, intent on making his way to the kitchen. Yes, he could clean his glass with magic, but where was the fun in that?

 _Thank you._ Feyre felt an odd emotion lodge itself in her throat. She was asked to make decisions every day in the Spring Court, but when it came to important things, she felt like she never had a say in her own life. Not only was her High Lord’s sworn enemy giving her a choice, he was also giving her space to think about it instead of pressuring her into choosing one option over the other. 

With Tamlin, training was off the table on the grounds that it might “send a message” to the other courts. The more Feyre thought about it, the more it felt like an excuse for him to be her sole protector. Her one and only knight in shining armour. Now, not only was Rhysand offering to help her master whatever was under her skin, he was also giving her a choice in whether or not he called the bargain in _at all_. Rhysand, on the other side of the bridge and bearing witness to all of this, just sighed.

 _It’s called common decency, darling. Without that bargain, you would not have survived. I will not force you to spend time with me when I had appearances to keep up and you were in a life or death situation._ Feyre shuddered at the reminder, but the dryness in his tone still made her smile. 

_Again, thank you. It means a lot to me._ Though Feyre couldn’t see it, a fond smile made its way onto Rhysand’s lips. Though he was still concerned about everything she’d thought about Tamlin, he was glad that he was doing something right.

* * *

A few hours later, Rhysand was still thinking about their conversation, and Mor finally made him sit down and tell her what was going on. 

“Mor, how might I get Feyre to care more about standing up for herself in the choices she makes in her own life?” When Mor gave him a _look_ , he rolled his eyes and explained why he was asking. “She mentioned Tamlin making decisions about her future that he, frankly, had no right to make, and it pissed me off.” Rhysand spat the end, his brow furrowed. 

“Has she learned the value in setting boundaries and firmly keeping to them?” Mor asked, leaning back into her chair. 

“She’s never had the chance to set boundaries. Her mind has been set to survival mode for quite a few years now.” Mor nodded understandingly. “How can I get her to realize how important it is?” She shrugged. 

“All you can really do is talk to her about it and show her that it’s okay for her to put herself first.” When Rhysand just gestured helplessly, she sighed. “This is something she needs to do for herself. You can help her along the way, but you can’t set boundaries for her.” 

“I know,” Rhysand sighed, his shoulders slumping. Then, he tossed a grin in Mor’s direction. “Thanks, cousin.” She rolled her eyes at him. 

“Add ‘therapist’ to my job description as Second, I suppose,” she said. Rhysand schooled his face into a solemn expression and folded his hands in front of him. 

“Your work is greatly appreciated. Would you like a raise?” He almost broke into a grin when Mor copied him, but long years of practice kept his expression neutral. 

“Only if you would grant it, High Lord.” 

“I would,” he told her, and they shook hands. After a moment of Serious Eye Contact™, they both collapsed into laughter.

* * *

Feyre woke up, her heart racing a mile a minute. The first thing she saw was the skylight overhead, stars filling the night sky. Slowly but surely, her heartbeat calmed. 

She fell back to sleep soon afterward.

* * *

Rhysand pulled a shirt from the warm, freshly washed clothes piled on his bed and folded it, humming a half-remembered melody. Ah, laundry. The best time to see which outfits he wore far too often. Feyre’s voice sounded over the bridge as he finished putting all his socks away. 

_Do you think tacos technically count as hot dogs?_ He thought about it for a moment, then grinned. 

_Or are hot dogs technically tacos?_ He sorted out all the pants and started folding them while Feyre hummed. 

_If hot dogs are tacos, would that also make a hoagie a taco?_ Rhysand paused, his hands still moving to fold things automatically. 

_Cube Rule?_

_Cube Rule,_ Feyre agreed. 

_Then, yeah, I guess? The real question is whether sushi should be in there at all, honestly._

_Well, the rice wraps around whatever is in the middle, usually, right?_

_But there’s seaweed around the rice! Does the Cube Rule even apply when there’s something else wrapped around the starch?_ Feyre was silent for a long moment. 

_So, that category should be renamed burrito?_ Rhysand nodded, then remembered that she couldn’t see him. 

_Yes, I really think it should be._ The silence that came afterwards was contemplative, and it felt… comfortable. Rhysand smiled to himself and kept folding his clothes.

* * *

Feyre was finally enjoying some time alone without having to plan _another_ party, but her thoughts were distracting her. 

She was just _so tired_ of knowing that the people of the Spring Court were still rebuilding and she was just sitting in this huge manor, wearing dresses and planning parties for the High Fae as though Amarantha had never existed. She wanted to be out there doing something useful and helping the people she had a responsibility to. She just wasn’t sure how she could help from in here. 

_Rhysand,_ she said over the bridge, her chin in her hand as she stared at the picture book on her lap without registering any of the words. _I have a problem, and I’d like your thoughts._ She had to wait a moment before he finally answered, but she guessed she would get used to that. Being a High Lord must be a busy job, no matter what Court you were in charge of. 

_Oh? I’m all ears._

_I want to do something to help the people of the Spring Court, but I’m basically confined to the manor and its grounds._ There was a pause from the other end of the bridge.

 _Just help someone in the manor._ Feyre blinked. _Tamlin still has his servants, doesn’t he? Volunteer to peel potatoes in the kitchens or something._

 _Or something,_ Feyre agreed. _I have some experience in preparing meat, but I don’t know how to do it for most of the dinners we have here. I also doubt they would appreciate it if I displayed exactly what I did to Anders._

 _Indeed,_ Rhysand said dryly. _Do you know how to use a kitchen knife?_ Feyre raised her eyebrows.

_Well enough, I suppose._

_Ask to help chop vegetables. It’s one of the most important parts of preparation. It’s simple when you figure it out, and it takes less time with practice._

_It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,_ she noted. 

_I am. I used to help my mother out in the kitchen often._

_Well, okay, Chef Rhysand. Thank you for your advice._ She smiled when Rhysand sent the mental equivalent of a thumbs up over the bridge.

* * *

The kitchen walls had barely any windows. There were some for ventilation, but other than those, it was a fully closed space with the exception of the doors. When she first opened the door, the walls seemed to press in on her, and she nearly hyperventilated in the doorway. Feyre took only one look before turning around and heading outside to calm down. 

_So much for cutting vegetables,_ she grumbled over the bridge. _The kitchen is too… confined._ After a long moment during which Rhysand kicked traitor Illyrian butt, he hummed sympathetically. 

_You could just break the wall._ Feyre glanced at the section of the wall that would lead to the kitchens. 

_I could,_ she agreed, genuinely considering it. She’d already broken the ceiling in her own bedroom. What was another wall? Rhysand laughed aloud at that line of thought, earning annoyed grunts from the winged bastards that decided to betray him. 

_You broke the ceiling???_

_You can read the thoughts I don’t specifically try to send you?_

_The bridge makes things easier, not to mention that you don’t have any mental defenses. This would technically be part of your training, but you should probably start learning how to build defenses now._

_Can I start now?_

_As opposed to breaking the kitchen wall? Priorities, Feyre._ He grinned. _Destruction of Tamlin’s property is obviously more important._ Feyre snorted and rolled her eyes. 

_Can I do this now?_ She repeated, and he laughed at her blatantly ignoring him, though his laughter cut off quickly as he was forced to dodge some particularly aggressive illyrians while they snarled at him. 

_Hang on, darling, I need to take care of some trash first._ With that thought, his shields and his fist slammed down and he finally got to work beating the shit out of the traitors.

* * *

Tamlin was starting to get concerned about the fae-shaped holes that seemed to appear out of nowhere these days. All of them were in areas that, yes, he supposed needed the natural light, but it was less the effect that worried him and more the cause. Was one of his servants intentionally breaking centuries-old stonework to get back at him for something? Was Rhysand playing a prank on him? Was he, himself, making the holes during extended periods of sleepwalking? (Okay, that last one was kind of out there as far as causes go, but it was still possible.) 

At the very least, his bride-to-be seemed to visit those areas more often after they put in more windows that could open all the way. Seeing her beautiful face always made his day. The tattoo on her arm, however… It sickened him that another male had left his mark on her—had essentially announced to the entirety of Prythian “ _Feyre is mine_ ” even if it was only for a week each month—and he couldn’t even dispute it. 

He rested his chin on his fist and stared blankly down at the documents on his desk. Every single plan he could think of to get her out of his grasp would end badly; every single way he could think of to ensure her safety, to keep the thrice damned High Lord of the Night Court from coming near her, either wouldn’t be effective against Rhysand’s sheer power or would take her too far away from him. 

If he kept her within his borders… sealed the manor so no one but himself and his trusted few could come in and out… _She would understand,_ he reasoned. _She knows her safety is my top priority._

In the gardens, Feyre felt a chill go down her spine.

* * *

_I think I overdid it a little with the kitchens,_ Feyre thought while wandering the gardens, surreptitiously glancing over to the multitude of fae carrying bricks to and fro. She caught the impression of a laugh from over the bridge. 

_You’re turning into quite a skilled demolition crew. Don’t get sloppy, darling, you might get caught one of these days._

_Ah,_ she thought, _but who would suspect the poor, helpless Lady of the Spring Court of breaking things on purpose?_

 _Lucien probably knows better,_ Rhysand responded over the bond, his amusement making her lips quirk upwards as she stared at the suspiciously person-shaped hole blown through the kitchen wall. 

“Oh goodness,” she said aloud. “What happened here?” One of the cooks hurried over and bowed to her, his face drawn in a grimace as he looked over the damage. 

“My Lady, please excuse the mess. We’re beginning repairs now, and it should be back to normal by next week.” She hummed in acknowledgement. 

“That’s wonderful news,” she smiled charmingly at the chef, amused when he averted his eyes in a show of respect. “Perhaps we could install a large window instead? It would be nice to be able to see the gardens while you’re working, no?” He looked surprised by the suggestion, then became hesitantly enthusiastic. 

“Indeed, My Lady, thank you.” With another bow, he hurried away in the direction of the fae Tamlin had asked to fill in the hole. Watching him exchange words with them, Feyre felt herself smile. If she could venture into the kitchens without feeling faint, perhaps she could even cajole the cooks into letting her help! Internally, she rejoiced. No more boredom! No more loneliness! 

_I’m wounded, Feyre darling,_ Rhysand’s voice purred down the bond. _Don’t you enjoy my company?_ She felt the impression of his pouting, and rolled her eyes at him, turning away from the hole in the kitchen wall. 

_You’re not really here, though, are you?_ She asked him rhetorically. _I can’t see you or hear your voice in person, so of course I’m a little lonely._ He chuckled. 

_I can visit you, if you want. All you have to do is ask._ She shook her head, smiling. 

_And stir everyone here into a panic? Not happening._ She paused, smiling at the disappointment she could feel from him. _Though it would be nice,_ she mused as though it were an afterthought, making her way inside. The hallways were empty as she ambled towards the library, intent on grabbing a book for practice and absconding with it to her room. 

_Oh? I can be subtle if needs must, Feyre darling._ Something in his voice made her pause, her hand on the doorknob of the library. 

_Don’t tell me you’re actually on your way here._ When there was no answer, she grabbed the first book she saw and swept towards her room as quickly as she could manage without appearing overly suspicious. _Rhysand,_ she said warningly over the bond. _I swear, if you’re actually here…_

Her bedroom door was finally within sight. Her steps slowed, and she gripped the book in her hand tighter. She reached for the knob. The door opened, but there was no one inside. She knew not to trust first appearances, though, and so she closed the door behind her before looking around suspiciously. 

When no one spontaneously appeared from the shadows, she sighed, only partially in relief, and stepped further into the room. 

_You’re such a bastard,_ she said over the bond. _I really thought you were going to be here for a second._ Suddenly, she heard a familiar chuckle behind her and whirled around. 

There, in all his glory, stood the High Lord of the Night Court, smiling at her. 

“Holy shit,” Feyre whispered, blinking as though she couldn’t believe he was real. _You’re here?_ She asked over the bridge, then repeated herself aloud. “You’re actually here?” The corners of his eyes crinkled, and then a grin split her face and she threw herself at him, nearly toppling them from the force of her hug. 

He froze at the sudden affection, his heart thudding from the sight of her smile and her spontaneous hug. Her arms wrapped around him and she buried her face in his neck, relishing in the fact that he was _here_ , and she could finally talk to him about all her weirdest thoughts in person! Rhysand, still flustered from suddenly being hugged, forgot to reciprocate, and his arms remained at his sides while a flush rose to his cheeks. Unfortunately for him, Feyre mistook his flustered non-reaction as hesitance and pulled back. Rhysand blinked at the loss of her warmth.

“Sorry about suddenly—sorry, I should’ve asked,” Feyre stuttered, still internally rejoicing about him being here _in person!_ Rhysand waved her apologies away, a sheepish smile on his face. 

“No, you’re fine! I was just shocked.” He cast about for something else to say, suddenly awkward despite having had countless conversations with his mate. “So… you break any walls lately?” He cringed internally. Feyre laughed at his awkwardness. 

“That was an awful conversation starter,” she told him, grinning and pulling him over to sit on her bed with her. Rhysand found himself smiling back at her. “It was almost as bad as the first time Tam tried to compliment me during my first few weeks here.” Rhysand raised an eyebrow at being compared to Tamlin, and she stuck her tongue out at him. While he snickered at her, she schooled her face into her best impression of Tamlin’s. 

“‘You look… better than before,’” she imitated, then raised her eyebrows at the male next to her and exclaimed, “and then he said my hair looked ‘clean’! ‘Clean’! Not ‘shiny’ or ‘luscious’ or even, I don’t know, ‘lustrous’, but _clean!_ ” Rhysand knew he was gaping at her, but still. 

“That was his best shot? He really said that?” He asked, his voice dripping with incredulity. At Feyre’s nod, he stared at her for a long moment. “Feyre, darling,” he said eventually. “Not to insult your fiancé, but that is literally the worst compliment I’ve ever heard.” 

“Oh, I know,” she laughed. “It was awful! He couldn’t find anything else about me to compliment!” 

“...Seriously? Nothing else? Not even how your hair shines like honey in the sunlight, or how your eyes are the same color as a far-off storm, or the way you live and breathe art, even when you’re not creating it? He didn’t think to mention how strong you are to have survived for so long through sheer force of will, nor even care to notice how you walked almost silently in your human form, enough to fool fae ears, like you were born for the hunt?” Rhysand waved his hands about at the end of his tirade, shaking his head at just how _blind_ Tamlin was. After a moment of silence, he turned to Feyre, only to see how shocked she looked.

“I—What?” Feyre blinked at him, and he flushed, clearing his throat. 

“What I meant to say is that Tamlin was an idiot for not recognizing just how amazing you are, Feyre.” His earnest expression and heartfelt words made Feyre duck her head, blood rushing to her cheeks. 

“Thank you,” she said, smiling shyly. Wow, he was kind of close. She’d never noticed that his eyes were the same color as the clematis flowers on the wall outside her window. There were flecks of blue within the violet, and her hand itched to find a paintbrush. The urge to capture the exact shades took her by surprise—she hadn’t so much as touched a paintbrush in the many weeks since the events under the mountain—but to find that exact shade of violet would be a delightful challenge. “Can I paint you?” She blurted out, embarrassment overtaking her when he leaned back a little in surprise. Feyre was about to stutter out a _nevermind_ and change the subject, but, within the next moment, she was being bombarded with delight and joy from over the bridge, and looked up to see him grinning at her.

“I’d love that, Feyre,” he said, and she smiled back.

* * *

“By the mother, Rhys, if you don’t stay still, I’m going to tie you to that chair!” Feyre snapped her fingers at him when he only fidgeted more, holding her paintbrush in her other hand. Rhysand had had to leave quickly on his first visit because someone came to check on her, and Feyre had missed the high of just sitting with someone and talking to them for hours on end, so she’d asked him to come back in order for her to paint him. 

“I didn’t expect it to take this long and be this boring!” He complained, rubbing at a smudge of red paint on his hand and frowning when it refused to flake off. “Can’t you just do this from memory?” 

“Nope!” Feyre said cheerfully. _Yes_ , she thought. _But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to see you again in person._ Rhysand raised an eyebrow at her, and she stared back at him, even when a flush rose to her cheeks. _Fuck. I thought that too loudly, didn’t I._

“Oh, did you, Feyre? I didn’t notice!” He said sarcastically, smirking at her when her blush darkened. 

“Shut up,” she grumbled, focusing on swiping her paintbrush through the purple she’d mixed and brushing it onto the canvas. A moment passed where the only sound was Feyre painting. 

“I wanted to see you, too,” Rhysand said softly, and she looked up to see him smiling at her. She smiled back.

He took the painting of his eyes with him when he left.

* * *

Feyre looked at the ring on her hand, then at the budget plans on Tamlin’s desk. He’d set aside quite a bit of their money under a category titled **Wedding** , and she wondered what she could do to delay it a bit. 

Oh, she still loved Tamlin, but she was becoming less sure that marrying him was what she wanted. She’d latched onto him at first because he had been the first one to care about her, to tell her that she was loved and accepted. Now, however, she’d started to make friends with the cooks in the kitchens (once they’d gotten over their apparent worship of her and started seeing her for herself), and between them and Rhysand, she never went a day without being told she had people who cared about her, if not in words, then in actions. 

There was also the fact that she didn’t even have her life together yet. She’d lived for all of 20 years, and Tamlin was, what, 300 years old? 500? Honestly, the age gap was a bit concerning, not to mention that she’d never had the chance to live for herself without depending on someone else or having someone else depend on her. 

She looked at the category marked **Wedding** again, and a plan began to form in her head.

* * *

_Why the hell are you awake at this hour?_ Rhysand groaned over the bridge between their minds. The sky was dark when she passed a window, but her fae eyes could see well enough.

 _Destruction of property,_ she quipped, silently stepping into a hallway far enough away from the bedrooms that no one would hear what she was about to do. Rhysand was quiet for a moment. 

_Was that a joke?_ He asked eventually, his tone uncertain, and she grinned in the darkness.

 _Nope!_ Feyre’s fist hit the stone, secure in the knowledge that everyone was asleep and she would heal quickly enough for no one to pin it on her. The wall blasted apart, an exact replica of the hole she’d made on the opposite side of the manor only nights ago. She sent the mental image to Rhysand, her grin widening as his shock and delight poured over the bridge, and then hurried back to her room on silent feet before anyone could catch her.

* * *

Tamlin looked over the gardens from one of the newer windows upstairs and sighed. His bride-to-be looked like she was deep in thought while staring at one of the many roses his father had given his mother as a mating gift. Was she thinking about what he, himself, would give her when their own mating bond snapped into place? 

He tried not to think about how it should have snapped into place already. He tried not to think about the crushing doubt and how she would probably leave him alone, never to see her again, if she found her real mate. He tried not to think about it, but sometimes his nightmares featured her face twisted with hatred, telling him that she’d never loved him before she left him, his stone heart breaking into pieces. He sighed again and glanced at her hands, making out the tell-tale glitter of the ring he’d given her to signify their engagement. 

Ianthe had counselled him on when the best time for their wedding would be— _Spring, of course, but a turning point of the year would make it something special,_ she had said—but with all these mysterious holes in the walls appearing and the cost of hiring someone to repair it, as well as the materials and transport of said materials, the money he had set aside for the wedding was rapidly diminishing. He’d accept nothing less than perfect, if only to send a message to the other courts that their marriage was a blessed one. 

Ah, maybe next year. He peered out of the window, noting that she’d started meandering slowly about the gardens, admiring the various flowers. Maybe he was imagining it, but she seemed to linger by the purple flowers the longest. He guessed it was her favourite color, and wondered if he should tell Ianthe to include purple in the wedding next year. In the meantime, he could bring her a bouquet to show her he’d been thinking of her. It wouldn’t do for his bride-to-be to feel neglected, after all.

* * *

_Rhys, look!_ Feyre angled the eye on her palm towards the purple hyacinth. _This is you!_ Rhysand rolled his eyes, smiling at her antics. 

_I hope you realize that unless you specifically project the image to me, I can’t see it? I don’t use your tattoo as some weird third eye, you know._

_Oh, sorry,_ she laughed, lowering her mental defenses a little more so she could send him the image of the flowers. She kept walking, lingering by the cornflowers, the heliotropes, and the lavender before Rhysand finally caught on. 

_Are you seriously showing me every single purple and blue flower you find?_ She snickered at the confusion in his voice, happily skipping along before coming upon some morning glories. 

_Yup!_ She said, and projected the image of the morning glories at him. He groaned, but made sure to commit each one to memory. 

When he visited her next, he brought a bouquet of every single flower she’d showed him. She looked at the bouquet in his hands before glancing to her vanity, where an almost identical bouquet sat, and giggled at his dumbfounded expression.

“Tam had the same idea,” she told him, grinning when he made a face. “Hey, at least he won’t ask about the random bouquet of flowers in my room; he’ll just think he picked more than he actually did,” she laughed. Rhysand sighed and handed her the flowers. 

“And here I was, being romantic,” he lamented, dramatically collapsing onto the bed. “Only to be shown up by Tamlin, of all people!” 

“Oh, yes, it’s very sad,” Feyre said, nodding mournfully while a smile pulled at her lips. “The HLNC himself, shown up by the male who once said my hair was clean. A tragedy.” 

“Yes, I—The what?” Rhysand pulled his arm off of his face, peering at her. 

“HLNC? H-L-N-C; High Lord of the Night Court.”

“You—You abbreviated my title? Why did you make it rhyme with clink??” Rhysand sputtered, and Feyre laughed at the look on his face. With how loud they were, it was no surprise that they didn’t notice the footsteps coming down the corridor, but they both froze when the door clicked open and Alis’ face popped in. 

She stared at Rhysand. 

Rhysand stared back. 

She closed the door. 

“Wait—Wait! Alis, wait!” Feyre rushed out of the door and pulled Alis back inside the room, where Rhysand had his face in his hands and was bemoaning all of his life choices. He looked up at her when she hovered near the door and waved sheepishly, knowing his cold mask would do nothing now that she had heard him laughing with her Lady. 

“Hi?” He smiled awkwardly at her, then stood and took a step towards them, his smile faltering when Alis flinched minutely. “I know you know _of_ me, but I’d like to formally introduce myself, if that’s alright. Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court,” he said, bowing. “At your service.” 

“Alis,” she responded, tense. After a beat of awkward silence, she drew herself up. “You are the sworn enemy of my High Lord,” she began boldly and Feyre tensed, but then her tone softened. “Yet you make my Lady happy. I saw nothing out of the ordinary in this room today.” With that, she swept past Feyre, who murmured her thanks, and left the room. 

True to her word, neither Tamlin nor Lucien mentioned that anything out of the ordinary had happened, and if Alis made sure to keep other servants away from that wing of the manor when she heard laughter, well. That was her own business.

* * *

Feyre once more found herself wandering aimlessly through the halls of the manor after she’d been freed from Ianthe’s endless questions about whether she preferred this or that tablecloth or this or that seating arrangement or this or that ornamentation, and she was now searching for something interesting to keep her attention and possibly help her de-stress. Eventually, she entered a wing of the manor she rarely ventured into and caught sight of a frame she’d never seen before. 

Having explored practically every inch of this ridiculously large manor, she found her curiosity peaked at the unfamiliarity of the gilded carvings. The craftsmanship was excellent, even to her untrained eye, and she began walking towards it, each step forward revealing another detail of the frame to her. It seemed to be carved with flowering vines, with roses adorning the bottom half of the carvings and jasmine blossoms in the top half. 

As she approached, she was gradually able to see more of the painting within the beautifully carved frame. Halfway there, however, she froze. The slope of that shoulder looked… familiar. Abandoning all sense of propriety, she rushed forward to stand directly in front of the painting, and her breath caught in her throat. 

It was a portrait of Tamlin… with Rhysand at his side, his arm slung over his shoulder. Both were grinning towards the painter, and they looked so _young_. She stared at their faces, studying the way the light was angled, the way the artist captured the youthful mischief in their eyes, the way the two leaned into each other like they’d known each other for years. They both looked so happy and _free_. 

The sound of footsteps brought her out of her musing and she looked away from the portrait to see Tamlin frowning in her general direction (or just at the portrait; she wasn’t sure yet) as he walked toward her. When he finally reached her, he seemed to register exactly what she had been looking at and turned toward the portrait, freezing at the sight of Rhysand. He stared at it for a long moment, and Feyre began to worry that he’d do something drastic.

A low growl rumbled out of his chest, and she tensed, bracing for—something, only for him to gently pull the portrait off of the wall and tuck it under his arm, his lips pressed into a thin line. He eyed her for a moment, and she matched his gaze warily and with no small amount of confusion, not exactly sure what he was looking for. 

“Did you put this here?” He asked roughly, his brow furrowed. “Where did you find this?” She held her hands up as though to fend off his questions. 

“I was just wandering around when I saw a frame I was unfamiliar with. I’ve explored this manor plenty of times, but I’ve never seen a frame like that, so I was curious about it,” she explained hesitantly. His brow only furrowed more, and she waved her hands in front of her. “Honest, I’ve never seen that portrait before today!” That seemed to satisfy him, and she breathed a near-silent sigh of relief when he nodded and turned to leave, the portrait of him and Rhysand safely ensconced at his side. 

It was only when he was nearly at the end of the hallway that she called after him, her curiosity overwhelming her at that point. 

“That portrait—Were you and Rhys..and friends once?” She stuttered over Rhysand’s name, used to simply calling him Rhys, but she knew that wouldn’t go over well with Tamlin. He seemed to freeze in his steps and hung his head, not turning around to face her. 

“We were,” he said quietly, his voice carrying to her in the sudden hush that seemed to fall over the hallway. “My family—No, _I_ was the one to hurt him first.” Shame was thick in his tone, and Feyre felt her heart clench. She watched Tamlin stride away without another word.

* * *

_Rhysand,_ Feyre called over the bridge later, still thinking about the portrait in that beautiful, expertly carved frame. 

_Hmm?_ Rhysand laid atop the covers of his bed, staring aimlessly at the canopy, curious as to what Feyre was up to this time. Feyre took a deep breath, not exactly sure how he’d react to her question. 

_Were you and Tam friends once?_ There was a long, long pause during which Feyre wondered if she’d overstepped. What if she never heard from Rhysand again? What if he just stopped talking to her over her stupid curiosity? Before she could work herself up into a panic, however, he sent the mental equivalent of a sigh over the bond. 

_I’m guessing you found the portrait?_ He sounded tired, suddenly. 

_Yeah._ She paused, and when he didn’t say anything, she continued. _It was a gorgeous piece of artwork, really._ There was a humorless laugh from the other end of the bridge. 

_It was._ He sounded… sad. _We had two copies made of that portrait. One for me, one for Tam._ Feyre noted the familiarity and kept listening, her brows furrowed. _He told me he burnt his after… after the power of the High Lord was passed on to him._ Feyre cocked her head. The portrait was either Rhysand’s or… Tamlin hadn’t burnt his copy at all. 

_Was he lying?_ Rhysand was quiet for a moment. 

_I found his copy of the portrait in his personal study,_ he said eventually. They fell into silence while Feyre digested the information she’d been given. After a while, she gathered her thoughts. 

_Rhys?_ He hummed in acknowledgment. _I’m sorry,_ she said, her voice soft. Rhysand, on the other side of the bridge, rubbed at his eyes, remembering exactly what had happened to break their friendship into such tiny pieces that not even magic could hold it together anymore. 

“Me, too,” he whispered, and lowered his mind shields into place, sliding under the covers of his bed and deciding to try to sleep. 

He dreamed of wings covered in blood.

* * *

Rhysand had come to visit again, and he found himself reading aloud to Feyre, his head pillowed in her lap and her hands stroking through his hair. Whenever he came across a particularly long word, he would turn the book so Feyre could see the spelling, and every time he did so, she would hum and write it down. It was a nice system, he thought, and Feyre’s fingers against his scalp made him want to purr in contentment. Halfway through the book, however, his mate shifted. 

“Rhys? My legs are going numb, so can we switch places?” He pouted, but agreed, passing the book to her and shuffling about so she could lay her head on his lap. They’d already done this multiple times, so he knew the drill. He threaded his fingers through her hair, tugging gently when she only set the book down and stared up at him with an oddly serious expression. 

“What are you thinking?” He asked, his voice soft. She worried at her lip, and he looked away before she could catch him staring.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but why aren’t you and Tamlin friends anymore?” Rhysand was quiet for a long moment, his fingers still brushing through her hair. 

“His family killed my mother and sister,” he said, his voice flat. His eyes looked haunted and so, so old, and Feyre regretted asking. 

“That’s awful,” she said quietly. A frown creased her face, and she’d probably regret asking this, too, but if Tamlin’s family had killed Rhysand’s mother and sister, then was Rhysand’s family the “rival” he’d talked about? “Tam said a ‘rival’ had killed his family,” she said, almost like a question. Rhysand’s eyes darkened. 

“His family killed my mother and sister,” he repeated. “They tore off their wings and kept them as _trophies_ ,” he hissed, and Feyre flinched from the tone though his fingers remained gentle in her hair. “My father… we went to the Spring Court as soon as we heard. I killed Tamlin’s brothers myself—I know the marks of Illyrian daggers when I see them, and I knew my sister and mother put up a good fight,” he sighed, grief and pride shining in his eyes like unshed tears. 

Feyre placed a hand on his arm, lending her support through her presence. Over the time she had gotten to know him, she’d started to think of Rhysand as a friend, and seeing him fall apart like this made her heart clench. He took a deep breath before continuing.

“My father was supposed to go after the High Lord and _only_ the High Lord. I made him promise not to touch Tam’s mother, but he…” Rhysand closed his eyes. “Tam was the youngest. He—I knew he didn’t have the power to make his brothers stop, knew he had been there, but—” his voice cracked. “We had been friends. So, when my father headed for Tam’s room, I tried to stop him. Tam opened the door at the wrong time, smelled the blood, and the next thing I knew, my father was dead and me and Tam were both High Lords.” 

Feyre sat up and pulled Rhysand into a hug as he shook, his face buried in the crook of her neck while he cried. She murmured soothing words to him and sent reassurance over the bridge, holding him until he was ready to pull back. 

“Thank you,” he said, sniffling, when he finally pulled away. He tried to speak again, but choked up, and sent what he wanted to say over the bridge, instead. _Thank you for listening, and for letting me cry on you,_ he thought. She ducked her head to catch his eye and smiled gently at him. 

“Anytime you need to talk, I’ll be here,” she said. He smiled back, his eyes red and his heart full.

* * *

Visits from Rhysand had become more frequent over the past few months. At the same time, Feyre had gotten used to heading down to the kitchens and helping out every morning and evening, whether it was with washing and drying dishes, actually cooking, or prepping ingredients. At least she knew how to use a knife, even if training was still off the table. Rhysand had made sure to let her know that his offer for training still stood, and she’d started learning how to raise and lower her mind shields, as well as some minor elemental tricks to keep her power from building up and consuming her whole. She still shuddered whenever she remembered that conversation. 

Sometimes, Feyre caught Tamlin sniffing the air suspiciously, and she knew he had his suspicions, even if he didn’t know _exactly_ what was going on. At those times, she took advantage of all the conveniently open windows dotting the corridors sporadically—and if they had been installed after a few unfortunate accidents involving her fist and a wall, well, that was her secret—and sent a small wind through the manor to muddle the scents of everyone inside. She felt a little bad for deceiving him like this, but it wasn’t as though he’d asked her about it. She wasn’t lying to his face or anything; it was just a little bit of omission. 

The days passed like a breeze.

* * *

Rhysand was in the kitchen, humming one of the songs that floated over the streets of Velaris as he prepared a stew. (Servants who? Cooking is therapeutic as fuck, and he’d stand by that.) 

_Hey, Rhys, what does a mating bond feel like?_ Rhysand’s hand faltered while he was cutting carrots, and he cussed when he nearly cut himself. She didn’t know? If she didn’t know they were mates, why in the world had she started talking to him at all? Why was she so relaxed around him when she knew exactly what he’d done under the mountain?? He put the knife down, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he finished this conversation. 

_Feyre, I think I have to tell you something,_ he started hesitantly. Feyre sent a quiet sigh over the bridge. 

_I don’t think Tam and I are mates,_ she confessed quietly, and Rhysand froze, his heart pounding. _He says we are, says he’s waiting for the mating bond to finally snap into place, but I think… if we were mates, it would have happened already._ His throat felt dry, and he swallowed before answering. 

_It would have happened after you became high fae,_ he told her softly, closing his eyes when he felt her surprise, followed by realization and shock. Was this the moment where she told him she hated him for lying to her? 

_You mean—?_ She fell silent. 

_Right before I winnowed away—that’s when I felt it._ He admitted. 

_Why didn’t you tell me when you found out?_ Rhysand took a deep, steadying breath. 

_At the time, I knew you loved Tamlin. You had just—_ He rubbed at his eyes, willing himself not to cry as he remembered the sight of her lifeless body surrounded by blood. _You had just died for him, Feyre. I couldn’t do that to you._

_And now?_ There was no inflection in her tone. He ran a hand through his hair.

 _I thought—I thought you knew? I thought that was why you had reached out in the first place—why you were so relaxed around me, even knowing who I am and what I’ve done. I thought—_ he cut himself off, flinching back when he felt muted anger from the other side of the bridge before shields came down and kept the emotion from travelling. Oh, he had fucked up… 

_It’s been months, Rhys! I never mentioned it once! How could I have known?_ She sighed, the anger leaking out of her. _I’m comfortable around you because we’re **friends** , you dork. I reached out in the beginning because I was lonely and had no one to talk to, and the tattoo from our bargain happened to be there. The reason I **still** talk to you is because you’re fun to talk to, and you don’t give me weird looks for asking whether a taco salad counts as a bread bowl or not._

_I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. Also, for your information, yes, a taco salad is a bread bowl._ Rhysand grinned when Feyre sent him the impression of her rolling her eyes, but his smile faded when she spoke again. 

_What does it mean, that we’re mates?_ She asked, worried that she might be forced to marry him under the law or something else equally outrageous. She was only 20, for goodness sake! She didn’t know what she was going to do tomorrow, much less in a year or so, and she hadn’t sabotaged her wedding with Tamlin just to be wed to someone else! 

_It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to,_ he assured her. Even if it killed him a little bit inside. She sighed in relief, then felt a little bad. She knew mates were a Big Thing with the fae, so she’d probably feel guilty for a while if she didn’t at least let Rhysand know her reasons for not acting on it. 

_I’m not saying that I don’t want to be your mate,_ she started, but Rhysand shook his head and cut her off. 

_But you’re not ready to act on it or anything, right?_ When Feyre made a noise of agreement, he continued. _That’s okay. If nothing else, I’d just like to stay friends until you figure things out, and then we can talk about it more, okay? You don’t have to tell me your reasons, and you sure as hell don’t have to explain yourself to anyone else. I just want you to be happy, and I’ll stand with you, no matter your decision._ Feyre’s heart melted, and she felt herself tearing up. How the hell had she been lucky enough to get a friend like Rhysand? 

_Rhys, you’re literally the best friend anyone could ever have. I appreciate you so goddamn much._ Then, a thought occurred to her and she groaned. _While you’re an amazing friend, and I’m really glad to have met you, how the fuck am I supposed to tell Tam about this??_ They thought in silence for a moment. 

_I could finally call in the bargain and then just never take you back to him?_ Rhysand suggested. Feyre shook her head, though a smile pulled at her lips at the idea. 

_No; He would probably hunt you down._ She bit her lip. _I could try to talk to him about it? Just mention how I don’t think we’re mates, or else something would have happened by now._ Rhysand hummed. 

_You could if you want to; just make sure you approach the topic carefully. I remember how Tamlin is with things he’s in denial about._ Feyre raised an eyebrow, amused.

 _You think he’s in denial?_

_When is he not,_ Rhysand laughed, and Feyre rolled her eyes at him, her lips quirked. 

_I’ll talk to him tomorrow,_ she decided, and Rhysand wished her luck. She hoped the conversation would go well.

* * *

“Tamlin?” He looked up from where he was tallying everything his people owned for the tithe, surprised that Feyre had managed to move so quietly that he hadn’t noticed her until she spoke. He smiled at her.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, setting the document aside, his full attention on her. She stepped fully into his study and closed the door, her face serious. 

“I have a question.” He gestured for her to continue, and she appeared to steel herself before saying, “When will we know that the mating bond has snapped into place?” His brow furrowed, his mouth pulling into a frown. Why was she suddenly asking this? Was she starting to question their relationship? Was she losing feelings for him? The doubt that had been festering in him for months reared its ugly head. What if they really weren’t mates? Hadn’t it been months since she was reborn in her new body? What if she had felt the mating bond snap into place with someone else? 

“My mother told me that it’s something you just _know_. Usually, it happens when you first lay eyes on your mate, but obviously your situation is unique. You were _made_ high fae, not born. We don’t know how that might affect the mating bond.” He knew he was grasping at straws, but, damn it, they were mates! They had to be! He didn’t know what he was going to do if she wasn’t his mate. Feyre’s eyes softened in sadness and understanding, and his face fell. 

“Tam,” she said softly, and he closed his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t say it. “I think, if we were mates, we would have known by now.” Grief tore through him, and anger followed swiftly in its wake. 

“Do you not love me anymore? Have you found your mate and decided that I’m no longer worthy of your time? Is that why you asked?” He angrily pushed away from his desk, not caring when Feyre flinched at the abrupt motion. “Have I not lavished you with enough gifts? Do you not want to get married to me anymore? Is it because I’m not around enough? Is—” 

“Tamlin!” Feyre snapped, cutting him off. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Tamlin fell silent, his jaw set. He felt his power boil in him, begging for him to let it out, to _destroy_ , and he ruthlessly tamped it down. He would hear what she had to say. “I still love you,” she said, and while Tamlin felt something inside him unwind, he knew she was going to follow it up with something that would devastate him. 

“I still love you, but you’ve lived for centuries. I’m a fraction of your age, and I’ve only been high fae for a few _months_. So, for me to _marry_ you—to tie myself to you for eternity when I don’t even know what I want to do next year, much less next _century_ —I don’t think I can do that.” Tamlin opened his mouth, his expression pleading, but she just shook her head and continued. “I still love you,” she repeated. “But, please, give me time. Let me find somewhere else to live and build my own life and figure out what I want to do. I’ll give you my answer then.” Tamlin looked so _lost_ , like the entire world had abandoned him, and she hated that she had been the one to do that to him, but he needed to know that she wasn’t ready to take their relationship to the next level. 

“You want to—leave?” Tamlin asked, his heartbreak clear as day. He had Lucien, had his friends and sentries and his servants. He’d taken lovers every year for Calanmai, and he’d thrown so many parties and met so many people that he still kept in touch with, even after so many years. Yet, he’d never had someone he could just talk to—about his worries, his fears, his hopes, his dreams. He’d never had someone to make plans for the future with… until Feyre. Without her, what was he? 

Feyre nodded, her eyes sad. She knew this was necessary for both of them, but it didn’t make it any easier. Tamlin read that on her face, and his own hardened into a cold mask even as he was breaking on the inside. She was leaving. She was going to leave him behind and never look back. Anger was all he had left. It was better than surrendering to the grief and heartbreak. 

“Go, then,” he spat. “Leave me behind, just like everyone else does.” Her eyes widened, and he bit back a harsh insult when she didn’t move. She didn’t deserve the full brunt of his wrath, but he had no one else to turn it to but himself. His magic trembled in the air with pent-up violence. 

“Tamlin-” 

“Go!” A thread of power lashed into the wall behind her, splintering wood, and she flinched back, hurt in her eyes. Abruptly, his anger vanished, and he slumped back into his seat behind the desk, his head in his hands. “Please just go, Feyre,” he whispered, knowing he was about to cry. 

“Tam, I’m not leaving you behind. I do still care for you, but I need to figure things out on my own. You can still visit, though! My door will always be open for you,” she promised. When he still didn’t look up, she sighed. “Tam, you’re one of my best friends, and I love you. I literally died for you,” she deadpanned. “Even if you don’t ever come to visit, I’ll write you letters, and if you don’t respond to at least one, I’ll come and bust down your front door and stay until you talk to me.” He looked up, his expression hopeful, and she raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Promise?” He asked, and she rolled her eyes, her mouth quirking up in a fond smile. 

“Yes, I promise. I’m not leaving you behind,” she repeated. “Okay?” Relief nearly made his unshed tears start cascading down his face, but Tamlin held himself together. He smiled at her, instead.

“Okay.” 

Feyre left her ring on his desk when she left.

* * *

Moving out of the manor would take a ridiculously long time, Feyre realized. With her fae strength, she could probably build a house within a fortnight, but that didn’t mean it would be a _stable_ house. Given her complete lack of experience with carpentry, she honestly doubted it would manage to stay standing for even one winter. Then again, she planned to stay in the Spring Court. Winter would be mild here, so maybe she didn’t have to worry. 

She still didn’t want to risk it. 

At the very least, money was never a problem. Her best friends were the High Lord of the Night Court and the High Lord of Spring, for Cauldron’s sake. Even if she hadn’t sold most of her jewelry, she still wouldn’t have to worry about ever going hungry like she had back below the wall, what with having befriended almost all the kitchen staff along with the servants that personally attended to her while she was still engaged to Tamlin. It was a blessing if she’d ever had one, because buying land and building a house on it was fucking _expensive_. 

She was wandering the gardens and complaining to Rhysand about it once, and he’d just… gone silent. 

_Rhys?_ She called over the bridge. _Rhys? You’ve gone quiet and it’s worrying me._

 _Feyre,_ he said eventually. _Can I trust you not to tell a soul if I entrust you with a very special secret? Your mind shields are fantastic, so I’m not worried about that, but you can’t tell anyone what I show you._ Feyre’s brow furrowed. 

_I promise not to tell anyone._ She was a little hesitant, given that she had no idea what “secret” he was talking about, but she assumed it was important. Rhysand let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

_Okay._ He winnowed to the edge of the Spring Court. _I’m coming to get you now, then._

 _Wait, what?_ She jumped when Rhysand appeared at her side, a grin on his face. “Where are we going?” She asked him, her eyebrows raised. 

“I’m going to show you my home!” His grin widened at her stunned face. 

“Wait—the Night Court? Isn’t that what—” _Amarantha modelled the court under the mountain after?_ She swallowed, fear churning in her gut, and his smile fell. There was a shout from the direction of the manor, but neither of them looked to see who had spotted Rhysand.

“Not quite, Feyre darling. I would never let you live in the Court of Nightmares.” His nose wrinkled. “It’s so dark and the politics are _horribly_ corrupt. No, I’m taking you to see the only city in the entirety of my territory that was created out of a dream of hope.” She blinked, confusion replacing her fear, and he grinned brightly at her. “We should probably go before Tam reaches us, though,” he said, almost as an afterthought, and gestured to the gardens behind her. 

Feyre turned and saw Tamlin running towards them, fear and fury warring on his face. She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way, and waved at him. Just before Rhysand whisked her away, she called, “I’m not leaving you behind! I’ll see you in a week!” 

The travel from the Spring Court to the Night Court was disorientingly easy; just a simple step and they had travelled hundreds of miles. She shook off the weird sensation and looked around, her eyebrows rising when she took in the broad avenue they were on, the line of storefronts and houses on either side all leading to a river glittering in the distance. 

“Welcome to Velaris,” Rhysand said, a quiet glee in his voice and a soft smile on his face. He was home. Feyre looked around, curious, taking in everything she could. There were fae everywhere with all kinds of different features that she’d never seen before, and she could hear faint music coming from somewhere. She blinked. It was oddly familiar, and the realization nearly knocked her off her feet. 

“Holy shit!” Her loud voice attracted a lot of looks from the fae around her, and she blushed and lowered her voice, turning to Rhysand. “It was you! That music in the cell—That was you!” The thought of how much it had comforted her then, how it had given her the motivation to keep going spurred her to hug him tightly. “You really are the best friend anyone could ever have!” She exclaimed. 

Rhysand only had a moment to be stunned, hugging her back automatically, before he heard someone clearing their throat from the left. He turned his head to find Cassian smiling at them, his eyebrows up. 

“Cas, no” he said, but Cassian ignored him.

“Who is this, Rhys? Your special someone?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Rhysand rolled his eyes at him. Feyre pulled away from Rhysand to look at Cassian, curious. She glanced back at Rhysand once, but mostly kept her attention on the male in front of her. She knew a warrior when she saw one. From the glint in his eye, Rhysand assumed that Cassian approved of the caution and gave him a grin. 

“Cas, this is Feyre. Feyre, Cassian. He’s the commander of my armies.” Cassian grinned at Feyre. 

“Nice to meet you! Rhys hasn’t been able to shut up about you.” He cheerfully ignored Rhysand making faces at him. 

“Oh, how sweet,” Feyre teased. “You talk about me?” 

“Occasionally-” Rhysand started, but Cassian cut him off. 

“Everyday!” Rhysand shot him a Look and they started bickering back and forth like they’d known each other for _ages_. When they finally remembered they had company, Rhysand turned to apologize to Feyre, only to stop short of the sight of her fond smile. His heart warmed, and he had to duck his head to keep her from seeing his expression because he was petty sure that his face just _screamed_ “infatuated”. 

“So,” she said, prompting him to look back up at her. “Why have you suddenly brought me to—Velaris, you said?” He nodded, glad of the chance to avoid bringing attention to his own feelings. 

“You mentioned that you were looking for a house, and there are a few places available here. You won’t have to buy the land or use your money to build the house; you’d only have to pay whatever taxes come with the property.” Feyre’s eyes widened with surprise, then she clapped her hands happily. Then, she bumped him with her hip playfully, her tone turning teasing. 

“Your suggestion is greatly appreciated, High Lord.” She inclined her head towards him with mock-seriousness and he returned the favor, his lips twitching when she laughed delightedly. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to just move in with Rhys, Feyre?” Cassian’s eyes glittered mischievously as his expression turned sad. “He’s quite lonely, you know.” Feyre raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Oh, is he? Such a shame,” she said, smirking when Rhysand rolled his eyes at them both, a blush on his cheeks. “Anyway, where are the houses you mentioned?”

* * *

Feyre settled into her home and was fast friends with a few of the shopkeepers in the Rainbow of Velaris, eventually setting up a partnership with one of them to sell some of her pieces. She went out to eat with the rest of the Circle whenever she was available and occasionally visited Tamlin to talk about whatever was on their minds. 

On one of her visits, he mentioned that he’d found his mate and she expressed happiness for them, asking if the lucky faerie was around and if she could meet them, only to be met with his wide eyes. He looked like he was half a second from breaking into tears. Apparently, he had actually been trying to see if she would get jealous, only to be completely blindsided by her support. She kind of felt like she should be a little mad about that, but it was honestly a little pitiful, so she just scolded him and then gave him a hug. 

Sitting at the island in her kitchen, sipping a concoction of her own making that Rhysand thought was actually evil—

“It’s not evil! It’s delicious, and you’re a coward!” 

“You added enough spice in there to kill someone! It’s evil!!” Azriel took a sip of it, his expression never wavering. 

“It could use some sugar,” he conceded, and Amren nodded, taking a sip of her own drink while Rhysand watched in disbelief. 

—she thought about how happy she was with her life at the moment. She lived in a bright little city, made a living by selling her paintings and occasionally helping Rhysand out, and had friends in both courts. There was still the mate thing to think about, but she was fine with being friends with Rhysand and seeing if anything developed from there. Sure, he was attractive and witty, but he also left his socks everywhere and, while she supposed his cooking was good (Rhysand complained loudly every time she said that—his cooking was excellent, thank you), he didn’t appreciate her delicious drinks at all. Which was incredibly rude. The spice was barely noticeable, honestly. 

She took another sip, ignoring the miniature wildfire in her mouth. Delicious.

* * *

There was a knock at the door. 

Feyre woke up in the dead of the night, confused as to what had awoken her before she heard it again. 

“Feyre?” Rhysand’s voice? She sat up and rubbed at her eyes, padding to the bathroom to splash some water on her face before making her way to the front door. 

“Rhys? Is something wrong? It’s the middle of the night.” His face was apologetic, and she opened the door wider to let him inside. 

“I’m sorry for coming so late; I know I woke you up, but I’ve just gotten some really bad news and I felt like you deserved to know.” Worry made Feyre’s heart clench, and she gestured for him to sit on the couch. 

“Hang on. Let me make some tea, then you can tell me what’s wrong.” Rhysand nodded, watching her putter around the kitchen and taking the cup when she offered it. He wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth comfort him a little bit.

“It’s—There’s a war coming. I just got word from Azriel that some very historically important and magically powerful relics have been stolen, and their combined use could very well spell the end of Prythian.” Feyre’s breath caught in her throat. 

“How can I help stop it?” She asked immediately. Rhysand hesitated momentarily, taking a sip of tea while he carefully avoided eye contact. 

“Would Tamlin listen if you talked to him?” Feyre thought back to the way Tamlin didn’t speak to her about important things as often as he used to, even after she’d moved out and they’d finally figured things out between them. She thought about how she used to wear his ring, but he hadn’t really _listened_ to her, and his main focus seemed to be keeping her _safe_ , not _happy_. He wouldn’t listen to her about matters of warfare. But Rhysand? 

She didn’t know the full story and, yeah, they’d killed each others’ families. But she remembered the sadness in Rhysand’s voice when he talked about it. She remembered how Tamlin had said _“I was the one to hurt him first.”_ She remembered the way he’d stared at the portrait and how gently he had handled it.

“Not about this, no,” she said, setting her cup down and locking eyes with Rhysand when he looked up. “But I think he’d listen to _you._ ”

* * *

When Hybern came for them months later, Tamlin and Rhysand stood side by side, Feyre and the other High Lords rallied behind them. Every court had come together and trained their armies together, and, with help from Feyre (she’d locked them in a room with the portrait and every painting she’d based on either of them and told them to resolve their differences) Tamlin and Rhysand had even repaired their friendship. There were casualties on that final battlefield, but almost all of them were Hybern’s. 

After it was over, Rhysand swept Feyre into a hug, then took her hands, his face red as he asked her out while Tamlin looked on, smiling.

#### Thank You For Reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Say it with me: Feyre deserves the space to figure out who she is Without A Romantic Interest
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @soulofstarstungl


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